


(aroi dee: very) delicious

by decidingdolan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, Present Tense, Thai Food, warning for saccharine moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is going to be one meal to remember. Thai food, main dish and dessert, by James Buchanan Barnes. (Post Winter Soldier).</p>
            </blockquote>





	(aroi dee: very) delicious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchetypal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/gifts).



He finds things.

Steve has mentioned Bucky has the strange tendency to extract the most random pieces of information (Barton’s birthday, Stark’s favorite Italian restaurant in Manhattan, and so on) out of the mundane.

Maybe it’s that wired up part in his mind, the training that’s still stuck to him, after working for the Russians, all those years ago, but it’s become one of Bucky’s hidden talents, much spoken of (and rumored), in the Avengers’ inner circle gossip (where the so-called important bits of their lives are discussed and dissected to the bone.)

Bucky, his shoulder-length hair done up in a ponytail (an eventual and long-lasting result of a certain redhead’s idea and repeated coaxing), pokes his head up from the pile of books in the living room one Friday morning, a sly grin on his lips. (The miniature mountain, growing day by day since Bucky’s moved into Steve’s place in Brooklyn, is about as high as the armchair beside it.) He’s dangling a familiar pocket-sized journal, with a faintly red cover in his right hand, as Steve pads into the room, favorite light blue checkered dress shirt and slacks on.

“What’s this?” Bucky asks, more playful teasing than serious interrogation, crouching behind the pile of books, journal away from Steve’s reach.

Steve smiles, that one radiant, I-know-what-you’re-up-to-but-I’m-not-going-to-stop-you smile, but doesn’t pretend to reach for the journal. “A mess,” he says, “Lists, scribbles, dates. Won’t interest you, Buck.”

But Bucky’s hand retains its grip on the journal’s thin, black spine. He flips the journal open to the first few pages, runs a curious finger down its lined papers.

“Moon Landing…Disco…Thai food…Troubleman Soundtrack,” he reads, “What you wanted to catch up on, Rogers?”

Steve shrugs. “Got most of those down, since then. It’s been a while.”

Bucky flips a few more pages, trying to get a feel of the journal. It may be a mess, but it’s Steve’s mess. Steve’s mind, the inner workings of. The items he once wanted to keep track of at a certain point in time, the dates he once held important in his calendar, the scribbles that once occupied that precious, creative side of Steve. (That Steve is madly, madly talented has always been a fact for Bucky, and a compliment Steve merely nods in reply to and brushes away each time someone makes a comment)

“A while?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. He’s about halfway through in his cursory tour of the journal, and finds that there are no more pages written on. “Since when?”

A pause.

Steve seems to swallow some words back in his throat before he finally answers. “The year I—uh, ran into you again.”

This time it’s Bucky who coughs, settling the journal down on the cover of the book at the pile’s top. Steve rubs the back of his throat.

“Oh,” is what Bucky manages.

He gets up on his feet from behind the pile of books, journal in hand. Bucky’s wearing his ‘lazy day’ tee (the nickname for the navy tee adorned with the Captain America shield in the center) and grey sweatpants.

Bucky turns the pages back to the first list he’s found, as he makes his way to Steve (shh. Those nine steps between them are important.). He’s standing in front of Steve, nose inches away to his, when he asks, “Thai food. What kind of Thai food did you have, takeouts?”

Steve laughs, this time, right hand running through Bucky’s hair. “What’s it to you, food police?”

A light shove. Even Captain America knows better than to mess with the food police (shut up, he’s good at the multiple hats for multiple jobs thing—this is one of those.)

Bucky shakes his head. “Thai food’s great at the right places in New York,” he mutters, “But in Thailand, it’s entirely something else.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Now you’ve got to tell me _that_ story,” he says, leaning in, lips capturing Bucky’s for a brief, chaste kiss, “But I’ve gotta go. Mission debriefing in an hour.”

Bucky’s arms wrap around Steve’s waist, his own automatic reaction to Steve’s lips on his. “You bet,” he whispers, hand grazing Steve’s cheek, “Stark Tower?”

“Mhm-hm.”

Steve’s about to nod when Bucky’s lips are pressed against his, and they’re kissing, teeth and tongues, nipping and tasting, sparks and prickling that have his nerve endings in a protesting uproar, and that wonderful, dizzying heat that warms up his blood.

It’s the farthest from chaste (the faint line he’s drawn for himself this morning) and Steve hates himself for giving in (he doesn’t).

There’s a faint groan in the back of his throat as he (has to, has to, come on now, Rogers.) pulls away.

“Hope that’s not the punishment for my food crime,” he says, licking his lips, eyes looking Bucky up and down, just (and only just) drinking up his share to (hopefully) last the entire debriefing.

God, has he mentioned the sight of Bucky in that Captain America shirt does something to him that he can’t shake away? (Especially not on a morning like this?)

He knows. The sneaky jerk. Bucky obviously knows, and is giving him hell for it.

It’s a mass produced commodity, sure, but on Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, it’s Steve Rogers’ very own, customized piece of heaven.

If heaven consistently, incessantly, persistently crosses, twists, redraws the lines Steve’s drawn for himself, and is a frightful tease (though the efforts obviously are worth it in the end) when he’s got his hands on Steve, that is.

“But I’ve really, really got to go. Fury will have my ass.”

Bucky’s smirk is downright sinful. He tiptoes up, kissing Steve on the neck before letting go of him. “Isn’t that mine to say?”

Steve blushes a delightful pink shade. He turns on his heels, index finger directed at Bucky as he heads out the door, “You and me. You and me. We’re not done, Barnes.”

“Not even close,” Bucky answers, all saccharine, holding up the journal—opened to the page with the list—in his hand. He makes his way to the doorway. Steve is already standing on the other side.

“Got a surprise for you tonight, don’t miss it.”

Steve mock-salutes Bucky. “I would never,” he replies, fondness in his eyes, and then he’s gone.

Bucky closes the door, musing to himself, “Troubleman? Wilson’s got taste.”

(Because it’s too easy to guess who Steve had gotten that recommendation from.)

xxxxxxx

Steve makes it back to Brooklyn around six p.m.

The aroma that greets him when he pushes open the door is, quoting Bucky, entirely something else.

It’s the sweet, inviting odor of freshly cooked rice, slightly brownish from the cooking, and the oddly intoxicating smell of an ingredient new to him, pervading the room.

He glances at the small, round table in the middle of the kitchen, where two chairs are set up for them, and sighs.

_Well, fuck me._

Two empty plates are laid out, along with a large bowl, filled with brownish rice, a spoon laying beside the bowl, and five other plates, each filled wth a side dish.

He finds Bucky at the far end of their kitchen’s L-shaped counter, cooking at the stove, spatula in hand.

Steve comes up behind him, arms enclosing Bucky’s hips.

Bucky seems to be frying some sort of rounded, egg-and-something-greenish mixture in the pan.

“What’s that?” he asks, child-like curiousity in his voice, resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder.

A smile tugs at the corner of Bucky’s lips, as he flips the fried mixture in the pan with the spatula, “Aracia Pennata,” is the reply.

Steve frowns, shortening his question to a faint, helpless “What?”

Bucky isn’t going easy on him at all tonight.

Steve feels Bucky’s body shake as he laughs. “It’s a vegetable,” he says, tapping lightly at Steve’s hand on him to release him, and leans over to turn off the stove and its cooking fan, before grabbing the pan handle and transferring the mixture to a plate.

Steve, standing a few steps behind Bucky, simply watches.

“It’s what they call _Cha-Om_ ,” Bucky explains, as he grabs a knife and starts to cut the round, fried final product into squares, noticeably stuffed with the green vegetable. “It’s usually fried with beaten eggs, like this.”

“I see,” Steve nods. He follows Bucky when the latter leaves the knife on the counter and walks over to the table, plate in hand.

“And these?” Steve pans a hand at the other five plates. “I’m guessing…that one’s chopped shallots?” he points out the leftmost plate.

Bucky grins. “You know your vegetables,” he says (without the slightest—at least noticeable— hint of sarcasm), before identifying the plate one by one, from left to right:

“Sliced Chinese minced pork sausage, salted eggs, (the eggs are sliced in half. The yolk of each is a good darker orange shade than normal, with a black outline), sweetened pork (slices of pork in a reddish brown, clear liquid), and raw mango slices (long, narrow, and thinly cut, they are of the palest green shades).”

Steve steps closer to Bucky, hand entwining with his. “Got names for them as well?” he asks, as a matter of interest. He has to admit that Bucky’s tongue rattling off different languages has become one of his newfound fascinations for his long-lost best-friend.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Bucky tilts his head in Steve’s direction, gesturing at the food, “Wouldn’t be giving vocabulary lessons if you’re in need of sustenance, big guy.”

Steve chuckles softly, kissing Bucky on the forehead. “Indulge me.”

(When his stomach decides to blatantly betrays him.)

Bucky rolls his eyes, but obliges. “The sausages are _Kun Chieng_ , salted eggs _Kai Chem_ , the pork _Moo Wan_ , and the mango slices? They’re just mango slices.”

“Where’d you learn all this, seriously, Barnes?” Steve throws him a questioning look, “Was there some sort of clandestine cooking mission I didn’t know about?”

Bucky just gives a wide grin in reply, as he loosens Steve’s grip on his hand and settles down at his chair, motioning Steve to sit at the other chair.

“When you’ve been places…” Bucky trails off, picking up the bowl of rice, and scooping up some on Steve’s plate with the spoon beside the bowl. “And since you’re so curious, might as well—“

“It’s stir-fried with something,” Steve takes a stab at guessing, before taking his spoon and tasting the rice for himself.

He lets out a faint moan of pleasure that goes straight to Bucky’s head. “Oh my _god_.”

“Relax, it’s just me,” Bucky is still grinning when he puts down the bowl of rice after giving himself a generous portion, “That’s _Kao Kruk Kra Phi_ , only rice fried with chopped garlic and the best quality shrimp paste I could find. Nothing too complicated.”

Steve helps himself to another spoonful of the rice on his plate. “But it’s so _good_.”

The grin doesn’t leave Bucky’s lips. “You’d have to thank the cook,” he says loftily, leaning toward Steve, elbows on his side of the table.

Bucky pushes the plates with the sides closer to Steve. “Now don’t go eating only the rice! I didn’t cook these for nothing.”

But his chiding’s lighthearted, jesting at best.

Steve catches Bucky’s eye.

“More to come,” Bucky’s saying, picking up his own spoon, “Eat up. We’ve got dessert.”

And Steve does.

xxxxxx

There are no questions this time.

Bucky’s gotten Steve directly involved in making dessert, and, as much of a labor it’s turned out to be, Steve finds himself enjoying it all, learning about this new dish as he makes it.

What awaits Steve when he’s finished with the main dish are grinded taro and flour in a bowl. “You knead, I’ll boil up the coconut cream,” Bucky says, grabbing the can of coconut cream from the counter.

“Mind telling me what we’re making, Buck?” Steve can’t help himself, his hands already working on the taro and the flour.

“ _Bua Loi_ ,” Bucky replies, turning up the gas and pouring coconut cream into a pot, “It’s a pretty famous Thai dessert.”

Steve continues to knead, eyes locked on Bucky. “ _Really_.”

Bucky nods, mock-solemn. He leans over to a side of the counter and takes a wooden spoon, stirring the pot as the coconut cream cooks. “Really.”

Minutes later, the cream is boiling, and Steve’s kneaded the mixture to a smooth lump. Bucky adds to the coconut cream a spoonful of dark brown coconut sugar and another spoonful of water. He turns to check on Steve.

“Nice,” he says, “We’re almost there.” He pinches off a small drop off the taro-flour lump. “Make ‘em into little balls, like this.” He shapes the drop into a small ball, the size of a glass marble, and leaves it in another bowl on the counter, within Steve’s reach.

Steve nods and gets to work. This one’s going to take some time.

Bucky turns down the heat at the stove, gradually, while Steve works, the number of small taro-flour balls filling up the other bowl.

Steve finishes around ten minutes later.

Bucky sneaks in a peck on Steve’s cheek when he swoops by and takes the bowl. He pours the balls into the heated coconut mixture, now turning the heat up, and resumes stirring the mixture.

“You,” Steve begins, hand squeezing Bucky’s shoulder, “really are something.”

Bucky leans back against Steve, that grin reappearing on his lips, “Yeah? How so?”

“How about I don’t tell you,” Steve’s whispering against Bucky’s neck, nuzzling close, “and show you instead?”

“Accepted. Counts as a promise, Rogers.”

Bucky hums (a rare occurance) and finally turns off the heat. He puts on the mittens hanging on the wall near the stove, and lifts the pot off the stove, onto the counter.

Steve opens the cupboard and takes out two small bowls, placing them next to the pot.

Bucky transfers generous portions from the pot to the bowls for them both. He fishes out a dessert spoon from a drawer and scoops up a small spoonful from one of the bowls, tasting it a bit himself and nods, then holds it up to Steve’s lips.

“It’s good. We made a good team. Try some.”

Steve grins back, “Thought you’d never ask,” bending down and swallowing the entire spoonful.

He’s the one humming this time, as the sweet, sugary taste permeates his tongue. Ah. Then there are those chewy little taro-flour balls.

_What a good—_

Steve’s sentence halts mid-thought when Bucky drops the spoon back into the bowl and draws him close, lips grazing his.

“Liked it?” he murmurs.

“Loved it,” Steve answers, nipping at Bucky’s lower lip. “You should cook more.”

Bucky’s satisfied mewl has Steve’s cock throbbing, his pulse quickened. “Only if you’re good,” he breathes.

“I’m always good,” Steve insists, lips leaving Bucky’s and turning his attention to Bucky’s jawline.

“ _Phom ruk khun_.”

Bucky’s laughter echoes in his throat. “You punk.”

Steve’s words, those three words, keep ringing in his head.

_Phom ruk khun. Phom ruk khun. Phom ruk khun._

“Say it only if you mean it, Rogers,” he mutters, a hand fisting in the front of Steve's shirt, “I’m serious.”

“But I do,” Steve is saying, kissing Bucky’s jawline, “I do.”

_Phom ruk khun._

Bucky lets the phrase roll around in his tongue, groaning as Steve’s lips moves down to his neck.

“Goddamnit,” he chuckles, shutting his eyes for a moment, his head tilted back.

“ _Phom kor ruk khun, Rogers, Phom kor ruk khun._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you guys so much for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos, and reviewing!! I know I do say this often, but it's true - you /do/ mean the world to me.
> 
> Special thanks to Emily, abstractarchetype, for sticking with me through the long hours of writing this. You're the best. 
> 
> I've had this idea in my mind for weeks since my second viewing of the film, and didn't get down to write it until last night. Quite a lot went into this. 
> 
> So tidbits: (as you may have already guessed - hello, Thai girl here :D)
> 
> 1\. "aroi dee" อร่อยดี - very delicious/tasteful, etc
> 
> 2\. Cha Om ชะอม is my favorite: http://www.taladrangsit.com/upload/2011_10/134_1318829875.jpg
> 
> 3\. The entire Kao Kruk Kra Phi ข้าวคลุกกระปิ set looks something like this:   
> http://www.pim.in.th/images/all-one-dish-food/mixed-cooked-rice-with-shrimp-paste-sauce/Mixed-Cooked-Rice-wit-%20Shrimp-Paste-Sauce-03.JPG
> 
> 4\. Bua Loi บัวลอย I've made a few times. Nothing beats it.  
> http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3404/3218712855_ea876e1555_o.jpg
> 
> 5\. Yes. It is what you think it is. Phom ruk khun - ผมรักคุณ. means "I love you." (Guy version)  
>  Girl version is Chan ruk ther - ฉันรักเธอ
> 
> 6\. kor ก็ means different things in different contexts - in this case it's "too", but it can also mean "might as well," and various phrases, depending on your sentence. 
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed reading the fic! :) I'm far from home, and I miss the food so much.


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